Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood

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George MacDonald. Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood

CHAPTER I. Introductory

CHAPTER II. The Glimmer of Twilight

CHAPTER III. My Father

CHAPTER IV. Kirsty

CHAPTER V. I Begin Life

CHAPTER VI. No Father

CHAPTER VII. Mrs. Mitchell is Defeated

CHAPTER VIII. A New Schoolmistress

CHAPTER IX. We Learn Other Things

CHAPTER X. Sir Worm Wymble

CHAPTER XI. The Kelpie

CHAPTER XII. Another Kelpie

CHAPTER XIII. Wandering Willie

CHAPTER XIV. Elsie Duff

CHAPTER XV. A New Companion

CHAPTER XVI. I Go Down Hill

CHAPTER XVII. The Trouble Grows

CHAPTER XVIII. Light out of Darkness

CHAPTER XIX. Forgiveness

CHAPTER XX. I Have a Fall and a Dream

CHAPTER XXI. The Bees’ Nest

CHAPTER XXII. Vain Intercession

CHAPTER XXIII. Knight-Errantry

CHAPTER XXIV. Failure

CHAPTER XXV. Turkey Plots

CHAPTER XXVI. Old John Jamieson

CHAPTER XXVII. Turkey’s Trick

CHAPTER XXVIII. I Scheme Too

CHAPTER XXIX. A Double Exposure

CHAPTER XXX. Tribulation

CHAPTER XXXI. A Winter’s Ride

CHAPTER XXXII. The Peat-Stack

CHAPTER XXXIII. A Solitary Chapter

CHAPTER XXXIV. An Evening Visit

CHAPTER XXXV. A Break in my Story

CHAPTER XXXVI. I Learn that I am not a Man

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I cannot tell any better than most of my readers how and when I began to come awake, or what it was that wakened me. I mean, I cannot remember when I began to remember, or what first got set down in my memory as worth remembering. Sometimes I fancy it must have been a tremendous flood that first made me wonder, and so made me begin to remember. At all events, I do remember one flood that seems about as far off as anything—the rain pouring so thick that I put out my hand in front of me to try whether I could see it through the veil of the falling water. The river, which in general was to be seen only in glimpses from the house—for it ran at the bottom of a hollow—was outspread like a sea in front, and stretched away far on either hand. It was a little stream, but it fills so much of my memory with its regular recurrence of autumnal floods, that I can have no confidence that one of these is in reality the oldest thing I remember. Indeed, I have a suspicion that my oldest memories are of dreams,—where or when dreamed, the good One who made me only knows. They are very vague to me now, but were almost all made up of bright things. One only I can recall, and it I will relate, or more properly describe, for there was hardly anything done in it. I dreamed it often. It was of the room I slept in, only it was narrower in the dream, and loftier, and the window was gone. But the ceiling was a ceiling indeed; for the sun, moon, and stars lived there. The sun was not a scientific sun at all, but one such as you see in penny picture-books—a round, jolly, jocund man’s face, with flashes of yellow frilling it all about, just what a grand sunflower would look if you set a countenance where the black seeds are. And the moon was just such a one as you may see the cow jumping over in the pictured nursery rhyme. She was a crescent, of course, that she might have a face drawn in the hollow, and turned towards the sun, who seemed to be her husband. He looked merrily at her, and she looked trustfully at him, and I knew that they got on very well together. The stars were their children, of course, and they seemed to run about the ceiling just as they pleased; but the sun and the moon had regular motions—rose and set at the proper times, for they were steady old folks. I do not, however, remember ever seeing them rise or set; they were always up and near the centre before the dream dawned on me. It would always come in one way: I thought I awoke in the middle of the night, and lo! there was the room with the sun and the moon and the stars at their pranks and revels in the ceiling—Mr. Sun nodding and smiling across the intervening space to Mrs. Moon, and she nodding back to him with a knowing look, and the corners of her mouth drawn down.

I have said that we were four boys; but at this time we were five—there was a little baby. He was very ill, however, and I knew he was not expected to live. I remember looking out of my bed one night and seeing my mother bending over him in her lap;—it is one of the few things in which I do remember my mother. I fell asleep, but by and by woke and looked out again. No one was there. Not only were mother and baby gone, but the cradle was gone too. I knew that my little brother was dead. I did not cry: I was too young and ignorant to cry about it. I went to sleep again, and seemed to wake once more; but it was into my dream this time. There were the sun and the moon and the stars. But the sun and the moon had got close together and were talking very earnestly, and all the stars had gathered round them. I could not hear a word they said, but I concluded that they were talking about my little brother. “I suppose I ought to be sorry,” I said to myself; and I tried hard, but I could not feel sorry. Meantime I observed a curious motion in the heavenly host. They kept looking at me, and then at the corner where the ladder stood, and talking on, for I saw their lips moving very fast; and I thought by the motion of them that they were saying something about the ladder. I got out of bed and went to it. If I could only get up it! I would try once more. To my delight I found it would bear me. I climbed and climbed, and the sun and the moon and the stars looked more and more pleased as I got up nearer to them, till at last the sun’s face was in a broad smile. But they did not move from their places, and my head rose above them, and got out at the hole where the ladder came in. What I saw there, I cannot tell. I only know that a wind such as had never blown upon me in my waking hours, blew upon me now. I did not care much for kisses then, for I had not learned how good they are; but somehow I fancied afterwards that the wind was made of my baby brother’s kisses, and I began to love the little man who had lived only long enough to be our brother and get up above the sun and the moon and the stars by the ladder of sun-rays. But this, I say, I thought afterwards. Now all that I can remember of my dream is that I began to weep for very delight of something I have forgotten, and that I fell down the ladder into the room again and awoke, as one always does with a fall in a dream. Sun, moon, and stars were gone; the ladder of light had vanished; and I lay sobbing on my pillow.

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“Papa! papa!” I sobbed, “don’t send me to that horrid school. I can learn to read without that old woman to teach me.”

“Really, Mrs. Mitchell,” said my father, taking me by the hand and leading me towards her, where she stood visibly flaming with rage and annoyance, “really, Mrs. Mitchell, you are taking too much upon you! I never said the child was to go to that woman’s school. In fact I don’t approve of what I hear of her, and I have thought of consulting some of my brethren in the presbytery on the matter before taking steps myself. I won’t have the young people in my parish oppressed in such a fashion. Terrified with dogs too! It is shameful.”

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